


under the sun

by RonnieMinor



Series: I am not an unimaginable thing [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Heatwave, M/M, Metaphors, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieMinor/pseuds/RonnieMinor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hasn't rained in weeks, the sun sitting in the sky and glaring down on them all. </p><p>For Isaac, Stiles burns hotter than the sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	under the sun

**Author's Note:**

> This was basically spur of the moment 'Oh look at the trees/sunlight in my garden oh gosh LET'S WRITE SOME LAHINSKI SEASON-RELATED STUFF THAT'S A NEW AND UNUSUAL IDEA' and then whoops I wrote some sort of meaningful stuff and oh some sex. Set (ish) post S2 and basically straight off the press, so I'm sorry if there are typos etc.
> 
> So yeah. Enjoy!

It’s the height of summer and it’s hot hot hot, sun beating down on the streets and houses like a drum, relentless. Against the skin, it falls like a hammer, a forceful blow that pounds ceaselessly against tender flesh, again and again. It’s too much to bear really, the weight of it too heavy to stand. People stay inside their houses, safe from the sun with their air conditioning and fridges full of cold drinks. 

Isaac has a straight-from-the-fridge bottle of coke in his hand as he walks, the glass sweating against his palm and the heat of the day, the cold of it burning him just as fiercely as the sun that’s overhead. His tank top clings to his body, a damp patch of sweat already blooming where the fabric brushes his back, and his curly hair is flat against his head, weighed down by perspiration and the heat of the day. His pace is leisurely though, flip-flop clad feet slapping against the searingly hot black tarmac in an even rhythm. 

He walks until he leaves the town behind, passing into the nature reserve and walking under the dappled light cast by the trees, the heat a little more bearable in this golden-green world. The air is still though, the sounds around him both muffled and heightened. There’s just the barest breath of wind stirring the leaves on the trees and the light dances, flickering spots of bright and dark against the dry brown earth. Isaac lets his feet slow even more, soaking in the quiet beauty of it; the stillness and peace that seem so rare these days. 

He finds Stiles under the biggest tree in the forest, nestled between its roots, back against its trunk, book in hand. It’s the darkest shade you’d find anywhere for miles, which explains everything really. For all that he’ll spend hours in front of his computer, finding any reason not leave his room, Stiles is strangely outdoorsy when he feels like it. On a day like this, Isaac knows he’ll have been itching to leave the house from the moment he woke up. He claims he gets it from his mother. Isaac sometimes wishes – futilely, aimlessly – that he’d actually known Niamh Stilinski. 

‘Hey’, he says. Stiles doesn’t look up from his book, but he raises a hand to give a little wave, and there’s a small smile tugging at corner of his mouth. Isaac slots himself down between the next set of roots and leans over to get a glimpse of Stiles’ book. 

Stiles flicks him in the ear with unerring accuracy – something he’s picked up from Lydia. Their newly-formed friendship is terrifying, to say the least. 

‘Quit it’, he says idly. ‘I’m just finishing this chapter. You can wait for a minute or two.’ 

And Isaac does as he’s told, a quiet smile on his face. He could totally rebel if he wanted to; he could make a complete nuisance of himself if he wanted to. But he doesn’t, because it’s actually pretty nice just sitting there, head resting against the cool tree bark, eyes closed in the soft darkness of the shade. He listens carefully; hears Stiles turning a page, and the quiet beat of his heart. Hears the flutter of a bird’s wings as it launches itself from a tree branch not far away, flying off into the forest to do who knows what. Hears the gentle rustling of the tree leaves in that barely-there breeze. 

The glass bottle is hardly cool anymore, its surface slick with condensation. Isaac raises it to his mouth and drinks, the coke almost all gone and almost warm. It’s fizzy against his tongue, the flavour of it flooding his mouth. He tilts the bottle until the last drop of the coke’s drained, then sets it down at his side. Beside him, he hears the snap of a book closing, then the sound of rustling leaves as it’s put on the ground. He doesn’t open his eyes as Stiles leans over and presses a kiss against his lips, just gives in to it, licking his way into Stiles’ mouth as soon as he’s allowed. 

It’s sticky-sweet and wet, and hot too, like somehow the heat of the day has seeped into their very bones and is radiating up through their skin. Stiles’ fingers against his cheek feel like fire brands, burning their marks into him. His father had burned him once or twice; had said it was all his own fault for being so clumsy. Isaac minded that, but the way Stiles is burning him – white-hot intensity, racing across his skin and through his veins – he doesn’t mind at all. The burns from his father left behind white marks that didn’t fade until Derek gave him the bite. By contrast, Stiles is like a forest fire, burning _through_ him, leaving nothing left behind but ashes. It feels like strangely like purification; like being born again. Isaac thinks maybe he likes it. Isaac thinks maybe he _needs_ it. 

Around them, the sun beats on down, fists hard against the earth. Stiles kisses him in the cool dark of the trees and he kisses back, his own fingers biting into Stiles’ skin hard enough to bruise – to leave behind the marks that Stiles cannot leave on him. Hot-slick hands scramble over soft skin, sweat-sheened and shining in the shifting light of the forest. Bodies press against each other and Isaac listens to the breathy sounds Stiles makes as he’s pushed against the rough bark of the tree, against the hard earth and dry leaves, skin pale and good enough to taste; to bite. He leaves a hickey or two, just because he can. 

The sound of his own blood thuds in his ears as they fuck, louder than the sound of his breath, louder than Stiles and the gaspingmoaningmewlingpanting string of sounds that fall out of Stiles' kiss-shaped mouth to hang heavy in the air. His heart races so fast that he wonders, almost idly, if it might explode. He thinks it’d be a good way to die, Stiles underneath him, lube-wet and tighter than a fist. He thinks maybe he thinks too much, so he stops thinking and just lets himself get lost in it, all the thrusting-breathing-taking- _claiming_. It doesn’t take much longer for him to tip over the edge. 

Later, they go again, when the sweat has cooled and the afternoon has worn on, the blistering heat of the sun a less. This time Stiles has _him_ pinned down and Isaac’s hands scrabble against his back, hips rocking up into his every thrust. It’s feverish and desperate, unlike the slower, more languid pace of earlier, and Isaac feels almost like part of some giant cosmic joke when he comes just as a clap of thunder roars across the sky. 

The rain has just started to fall when they begin to dress, round, fat drops pelting against the parched earth. Stiles makes a face when he picks up his book. 

‘This is going to get ruined’, he says, frowning at it. 

Isaac shrugs. ‘It’ll be ok’, he says, although he doesn’t know why. 

Stiles smiles at him. He says, ‘Yeah, I guess it will.’ And then he slips his fingers between Isaac’s, twining them together. They walk back to Beacon Hills through the warm summer rain, and by the time they get home, Isaac barely remembers how it feels to burn.


End file.
